There, beside the shifting fact ofall that water. What's done is done.

Here—your shirt, he said,after. Lifting it. Bringing itto me as if it werenot a shirtbut a thing immaculate,or in flames, or—with a single swordpositioned through it—a sacred heart.

The lightextends like truth, the truth likea hand extending at the same time asit recedes.What is that like?

In the meadow, inadoration: am I not yours?

If I remember it, did it happen?

untilthe image itselfhas grown distorted pastall recognition savethat of memory

tracedfar enough, past hope, back acrossbelief, it ends alwaysat desire

Thereis a glamour,even to a thing undoing itself

Radiance unrelenting—no peace, no shadow,no shelter now—